


Crowley Managing his Feelings (in the Worst Way Possible)

by phantom81



Series: Hurt and Perhaps Some Comfort [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I like to imagine all of the narration is done by God herself, Light Angst, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, no beta we die like men, so good luck getting the voice of Frances McDormand out of your head while reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantom81/pseuds/phantom81
Summary: If you ask anyone, pining over someone for six thousand years can be an emotionally draining experience. This is especially true for Crowley, whose only management for these feelings is yelling at his plants or wanking. And, as per usual, he was managing his feelings for Aziraphale using the latter of the two options.





	Crowley Managing his Feelings (in the Worst Way Possible)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing anything on here and my first time writing something good omens related and, of course, it's sad porn

If you ask anyone, pining over someone for six thousand years can be an emotionally draining experience. This is especially true for Crowley, whose only management for these feelings is yelling at his plants or wanking. And, as per usual, he was managing his feelings for Aziraphale using the latter of the two options.  
  
“_Oh_, angel...” Crowley groaned lowly, one hand raking his fingers against his chest and the other slowly moving up and down the length of his cock. His nails scraped against his nipple and let out a surprised gasp, arching up to feel more. “Fuck... me.” He moaned out, his hips bucking into his lubed palm. He wanted that angel so damn badly it that it physically hurt. Or maybe that was because he had been edging himself for nearly an hour now, his mind clouded with thoughts of the holy being doing not-so-holy things to him.

Images of Aziraphale hovering over him— looking down at him with those beautiful blue eyes— had his pulse racing. He wanted nothing more than to pleasure— or be pleasured by— that gorgeous angel. He wanted to roam his hands over Aziraphale's body so that he could commit every bit of it to his memory. And if Aziraphale wanted to be on the bottom, Crowley would ensure the angel would enjoy every second of what he did. He wanted so badly to sink to his knees and give the angel everything he wanted. To worship him.

  
He wished to wrap his mouth around him and take every bit of his undoubtedly wonderful cock into his mouth (or he would make good use of his long, forked tongue by resting in between his plush thighs and eating him out). Crowley never cared what parts Aziraphale had in his fantasies— although he much preferred thinking about being penetrated rather than it being the other way around. He would rather spend his valuable brain power [1] thinking about the various ways he could snog him. The demon sobbed and his hand left his chest to desperately reach for the lube at his right.

He messily squeezed some on his fingers, mesmerized by its movement for a second or two before he flipped onto his stomach, his hips in the air and his dick leaking precum onto his stomach and dripping onto his sheets. His fingertip circled his rim and he gasped at the sudden cold.  
  
He wanted Aziraphale to be the one doing this to him. He wanted his angel to make him melt and writhe in pure ecstasy— make him scream loud enough that the people down the street know that he’s getting it from the most gorgeous ethereal being in the universe. He wondered how much larger— how much thicker— the angels’ fingers would be. His hands were always perfectly manicured, and his hands were so much thicker than Crowley’s.

The demon wanted those hands all over his body, pressing inside of him like he was doing to himself now, holding him down no matter how much he begged and pleaded.  
  
He wanted the angel to use him however he saw fit, simply dragging him along for the ride. It was completely unrealistic, Crowley realized, because Aziraphale would never use him. He would make sure the demon was okay the entire time, taking it torturously slow to ensure he didn’t hurt him. And maybe Crowley would whine and tell the angel to “hurry the hell up,” but he’d enjoy every second of it nonetheless. It would be his angel, after all. It would be his angel gripping at his hips and biting at his lips and whispering how good he felt into the demons’ ears. He would be wonderful simply because it was him— and Crowley would remember that it was six thousand years leading up to his angel fucking him so tenderly he’d sob into the mattress.  
  
Millennia had gone by and Crowley was still pining over the same guy. Sure, he had spread rumors of screwing Freddie Mercury but all he did was sob into the mans' arms backstage and ramble about how much he loved this angel [2].  
  
He just wanted the angels’ hands on him. It didn’t have to be sexual, but Crowley would enjoy that especially at this moment. He wanted Aziraphale’s big fingers to open him up and he wanted the angel to push into him and make him come undone again and again and again.  
  
Crowley wanted to belong to his angel and his angel alone. He longed to be shoved into the bed and fucked so hard he wouldn’t remember anything but ‘Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.’ The demon thought about how Aziraphale might sound in bed, the pleased gasps he would make as he raked his fingernails down Crowley’s sides right down to his hips. He didn’t know whether he would want to be on his back or his belly. One would provide a gorgeous view of Aziraphale’s blissed-out expression, but the other would allow the angel to get even deeper into him. He decided in a split-second that he would want to see his angels’ face more than anything and— without his fingers moving out of himself— he flipped back onto his back, one hand working eagerly at his dick and the other desperately searching for that spot inside of him that would make the demon see stars.  
  
“Oh, yes,” He moaned, finding the sphere of spongey flesh that made him arch his back and cry out in absolute need. “Aziraphale! Angel! Oh, please, _please_, angel, fuck me,” He blabbered out variations of the angels’ name as he drilled into his ass with his fingers, hitting that spot dead-on every single time. He sputtered out ‘please’-s as both hands sped up.  
  
He closed his eyes and pictured Aziraphale between his legs, one hand inside of him and the other furiously jerking him off. Then Aziraphale biting at his neck as he roughly fucked into the lanky demon. Then Aziraphale simply existing, sitting next to him at St. James’ Park or across the table from him at the Ritz. That was what finally sent him over the edge.  
  
The moan that was ripped out of him was probably heard by Aziraphale himself. It was loud enough to shake his flat and it tapered off into a high-pitched whimper as he came down. He still had a hand on his cock, milking every drop of cum— and there were a lot of drops— out of his spent dick. He laid in silence for a second, simply basking in the afterglow of a mind-blowing wank.  
  
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.” He dragged out the vowel as he came back to earth, realizing that there was no angel next to him. He turned on his side and gazed longingly at the empty space on the bed.  
  
And he cried.

* * *

[1] As most people know, Crowley is the proud owner of a single brain cell, whether or not he is thinking of Aziraphale.

[2] He had done the same to Shakespeare as well, which was how Romeo and Juliet came to be.

**Author's Note:**

> this may or may not have been written for the sole purpose of me to project some bad™ feelings onto a fictional character 🤠👊


End file.
